LIBRARY  Of  PRINCETON 


MAR  ~  6 


2i 


THEOLOGICAL  seminary 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


https://archive.org/details/easterpeopleOOkirk 


THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


BACKWARD  GLANCE  AT  THE  OLD  CHURCH  SHOWS  THE  WEATHER-VANE 


1/  ' v  L'"' 

The  Easter  People . 

A  PEN-PICTURE  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  CELE¬ 
BRATION  OF  THE  RESURRECTION 


Bv/ 

WINIFRED  ‘KIRKLAND 

Author  of  “ Polly  Pat's  Parish etc. 


FOURTH  EDITION 


New  York  Chicago 

Fleming  H.  Re  veil  Company 

London  and  Edinburgh 


Copyright,  1923  by 

FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  851  Cass  Street 
London:  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  99  George  Street 


FOREWORD 


NYONE  who  has  ever  been  an  eye¬ 


witness  of  the  beautiful  Easter 


customs  which  these  pages  com¬ 
memorate  must  feel  how  inadequate  is 
any  description  of  a  Salem  Easter.  This 
account,  in  a  form  shortened  for  magazine 
requirements,  appeared  in  The  Ladies' 
Home  Journal  of  April,  1922,  and  it  is 
with  the  kind  permission  of  the  editors 
that  narrative  and  illustrations  are  here 
reprinted. 


W.  K. 


Asheville,  N.  C. 


5 


CONTENTS 


I 

Old  Salem  Today  . 

•  II 

Good  Friday  in  Salem  . 

III 

The  Salem  of  the  Past 

IV 

A  Salem  Easter 


.  9 

.  17 

.  28 

.  46 


7 


322***' 


THE  OLD  HOME  CHURCH  WITH  ITS 
UNFAILING  CLOCK  FACE  IN 
THE  GABLE  FENEATH 
THE  BELFRY 


I 


OLD  SALEM  TODAY 


THE  approach  to  old  Salem  of  the 
old  South  is  commonplace  enough. 
Thirty  miles  of  motoring  roll  away 
beneath  our  wheels.  Prosperous  fields  to 
right  and  left  spread  to  woody  reaches 
that  circle  the  horizon.  The  hesitant 
leaves  of  an  early  spring  blur  the  stark 
outlines  of  trunk  and  branch.  Gnarled 
orchard  boughs  are  all  in  milk-white 
flower.  Against  dusky  wood  spaces  the 
Judas  tree  hangs  its  veils  of  deep  pink, 
and  the  dogwood  is  just  beginning  to 
show  the  glint  of  silver  disks.  Other  cars 
go  honking  past  us.  On  the  railroad 
parallel  to  us  a  train  thunders  by.  We 
mount  a  hill  and  the  twin  city  of  Winston- 
Salem  lies  before  us.  We  dip  down  the 
slope,  then  climb  again,  and  abruptly  we 
are  in  another  world,  we  are  in  old  Salem. 
I  shall  never  again  forget  that  the  word 
Salem  means  peace. 

After  two  heavy,  gray  days,  the  sun,  at 

9 


10  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


noon  of  Good  Friday,  comes  riding  forth 
clear  of  all  cloud.  The  boxwood  in  old 
gardens  is  crisp  and  glistening.  House 
walls  of  ancient  brick,  freshened  by  the 
rain,  yield  their  full  of  mellow  colour.  As 
we  roll  up  South  Main  Street,  my  com¬ 
panion  points  out  this  and  that  place  of 
interest,  for  she  is  one  of  the  many  far- 
scattered  Southern  women  who  once  were 
schoolgirls  in  the  old  Moravian  Female 
Academy.  The  word  Moravian  has  up  to 
this  time  been  merely  a  word  to  me,  a  term 
associated  with  quaint,  long-persistent 
customs,  but  in  a  few  brief  days  that  word 
is  to  become  potent  with  a  significance 
that  I  feel  inadequate  to  express,  as  hesi¬ 
tatingly  and  gratefully  I  try  to  set  down 
the  impressions  of  one  chance  visitor.  In 
every  recurrent  springtime  thousands  and 
thousands  of  such  visitors  push  into  the 
old  city,  and  at  every  E  aster-tide  by  some 
strange  contagion  of  reverence,  quiet 
Salem  has  the  power  to  subdue  these  alien 
crowds  to  the  very  spirit  of  its  own  piety. 
Such  is  the  alchemy  of  influence  possessed 
by  the  people  who  have  made  Easter  the 
pivot  of  all  the  year,  the  very  heart  of  all 
their  faith  and  all  their  conduct. 


OLD  SALEM  TODAY 


11 


Almost  at  once  as  we  enter  the  town  I 
am  aware  of  an  atmosphere  vibrant  with 
expectancy.  Windows  are  being  pol¬ 
ished,  and  dooryards  clipped,  and  faces 
lifted  to  us  brighten  with  unspoken  wel¬ 
come.  Old  houses  abut  directly  on  the 
pavement,  so  that  their  modern  occupants 
must  have  thick  curtains  for  privacy,  cur¬ 
tains  now  snowy  starched  for  Easter. 
Some  of  the  roomy  dwellings  have  nest¬ 
ling  beside  them  the  little  shops  where 
once  the  master  kept  his  business  close  to 
home.  Externally  most  of  the  houses  re¬ 
main  exactly  as  they  were  when  first  built, 
in  the  later  eighteenth  century.  We  pass 
the  old  Butner  Tavern,  standing  just  as  it 
stood  in  1781  when  Washington  occupied 
that  now  famous  northeast  chamber.  In 
the  museum  there  is  still  exhibited  the 
harpsichord  by  which  he  was  entertained, 
and  the  story  runs  that  a  little  girl  se¬ 
lected  to  play,  broke  down,  and  was  kissed 
and  comforted  by  the  great  first  president 
himself. 

We  turn  to  our  right  at  the  time-worn 
Square,  a  stretching  rectangle  of  towering 
water  oaks  crossed  by  diagonal  paths.  At 
opposite  sides  of  the  corner  at  which  we 


12  TPIE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


enter  are  buildings  that  recall  the  deep 

community  fellowship  characteristic '  of 

the  Moravian  practice,  for  one  of  the  two 

is  the  Widows’  House,  and  the  other,  with 

its  red-tiled  roof  and  deep  windows,  is  the 

Plouse  of  the  Single  Brothers,  where,  for 

many  years,  before  it  became  the  present 

museum,  they  had  their  school  for  boys. 

We  are  facing  now  the  long,  unbroken 

brick  facade  that  forms  the  entire  east 
> 

side  of  the  Square.  In  the  middle  is  the 
Academy,  with  its  high  white  pillars,  and 
at  the  south  the  Sisters’  House  with  its 
two  rows  of  dormer  windows.  At  the 
north  stands  the  old  Home  Church,  with 
its  staunch  ancient  walls  dull  red  beneath 
bright  ivy,  its  hooded  door,  its  unfailing 
clock  face  in  the  gable  beneath  the  domed 
white  belfry.  At  the  church  we  turn 
northward  and  get  out  of  our  car  to 
search  for  the  little  cottage  where  we  are 
to  have  rooms.  Our  motor  cannot  go 
farther,  for  all  cars  are  barred  from  the 
long  quiet  avenue  that  lies  before  us. 
My  friend  is  looking  sadly  for  the  great 
shaggy  trees  familiar  to  her  girlhood, 
those  towering  ancient  guardians  of  the 
dead  that  gave  Cedar  Avenue  its  name. 


WITHIN  THESE  PORTALS  STRETCHES  ROW  AFTER 
ROW  OF  LITTLE,  FLAT,  WHITE  GRAVESTONES 


OLD  SALEM  TODAY 


15 


But  now  those  old  trees  themselves  are 
dead,  and  their  place  taken  by  slim  young 
poplars  freshly  green  with  spring.  To 
me,  the  newcomer,  Cedar  Avenue  is  beau¬ 
tiful  enough  as  it  is  today,  a  broad  white 
gravelled  path  lined  by  the  swaying  green 
shafts  of  the  poplars,  and  bordered  on  our 
left  by  a  low  stone  wall,  and  on  the  right 
by  a  high  picket  fence,  almost  covered  by 
ivy,  and  broken  by  white-arched  gate¬ 
ways,  on  which,  above  the  green-leaved 
pillars,  are  blazoned  triumphant  Easter 
texts.  Within  those  portals  in  sunshine 
that  is  dappled  by  the  shadows  of  cedar 
and  boxwood  stretches  row  after  row  of 
little  flat  white  gravestones  all  exactly 
alike.  Here  is  no  distinction  of  persons 
nor  of  families,  but  merely  of  groups, 
married  men  together,  married  women, 
single  men  and  boys  and  boy  babies,  sin¬ 
gle  women  and  girls  and  girl  babies.  This 
green  spot  is  the  center  of  Salem;  it  is  the 
center  of  the  Moravian  faith.  This  is  the 
graveyard  where,  near  and  dear  and  in¬ 
stant  in  the  memory  of  the  living,  the  dead 
lie,  asleep  in  sunny  peace. 

Nestling  close  to  the  graves  is  the  little 
cottage,  cheery  with  nodding  tulips  and 


16  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


bright  hyacinths,  where  we  are  to  stay 
with  Miss  Dorcas  Reitzer,  and  her  niece, 
Miss  Bertha.  Both  are  of  old  Moravian 
stock,  readily  tracing  all  their  ancestors 
back  to  German  Herrnhut  of  1722.  Miss 
Dorcas  is  eighty,  her  feet  are  slow  with 
rheumatism,  but  her  mind  and  heart  are 
alert  for  one  more  exultant  Easter. 
Along  the  gravel  path  beyond  her  door 
people  are  constantly  passing  on  their 
way  to  the  green  and  white  graveyard,  for 
the  houses  of  the  dead  as  well  as  the 
houses  of  the  living  must  be  shining  clean 
and  flower-trimmed  for  Easter  morning. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  IX  SALEM 


THERE  is  but  one  way  to  know  any 
creed,  and  that  is  by  knowing  the 
people  who  have  lived  it.  It  is  be¬ 
cause  of  the  welcome  in  the  little  gray 
cottage,  it  is  because  of  the  hospitality  I 
found  in  waiting  for  every  stranger  in  the 
quaint  old  Square, — in  the  Bishop’s  home, 
in  the  Sister’s  House,  in  the  church  and  in 
the  school, — that  I  have  wished  to  record 
one  stranger’s  impression  of  a  Salem 
Easter,  and  of  the  Moravian  faith. 

I  wish  that  I  might  have  been  present 
for  all  the  church  services  of  this  reverent 
preparation  week,  for  Palm  Sunday  and 
the  confirmation,  for  Maundy  Thursday 
and  the  evening  communion  commemora¬ 
tive  of  the  first  sacramental  supper.  Day 
by  day,  through  all  the  week,  the  congre¬ 
gation  has  heard  read,  the  “Acts  of  Mon¬ 
day,”  the  “Acts  of  Tuesday,”  and  so  on, 
the  services  consisting  of  the  reading  of 

17 


18  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


the  gospel  record  constantly  interspersed 
with  the  rich  singing  of  the  old  chorales. 
I  wish  I  had  been  here  in  Salem  through 
all  these  days  that  have  approached  nearer 
and  nearer  to  Easter  in  reverent  proces¬ 
sional.  The  afternoon  service  of  Good 
Friday  is  my  first  introduction  to  the 
Moravian  liturgy.  I  am  familiar  with  the 
ceremonial  of  palled  altar  and  penitential 
abasement  and  despair,  but  this  Moravian 
Good  Friday  is  without  a  hint  of  gloom. 
Grown-ups  and  bright -faced  children 
crowd  the  church,  all  quiet  yet  with  a  stir 
of  cheery  friendliness.  The  organ  rolls 
solemn  yet  not  sad.  The  choir  files  in 
simply,  and  quite  as  simply  the  Bishop,  in 
ordinary  dress,  takes  his  seat  below  them 
close  to  his  people  as  if  he  were  but  one  of 
them.  My  first  impression  of  the  Mora¬ 
vian  service  is  of  informality  combined 
with  profound,  spontaneous  reverence, 
and  the  second  is  its  deep,  pervasive  joy¬ 
ousness.  Is  it  this  last  that  has  kept  burn¬ 
ing  so  clear  the  lamp  of  the  spirit  in  the 
Bishop’s  eyes  in  spite  of  his  eighty  years? 
The  faces  of  God’s  stewards  grow 
strangely  alike  as  their  frail  crafts  draw 
near  the  harbour  beacons.  The  Bishop’s 


GOOD  FRIDAY  IN  SALEM  19 


\ 


face,  with  the  Easter  light  upon  it,  as  his 
familiar  figure  moves  about  these  old 
streets,  will  always*  for  me  embody  all 
Salem’s  Easter  welcome  to  the  stranger. 

As  the  Bishop  reads  that  old,  cruel 
record  of  the  lots  cast  for  the  seamless 
robe,  and  of  the  brutal  spear,  I  per¬ 
ceive  the  strong  triumph  by  which  the 
light  of  Easter  makes  radiant  even  the 
blackness  of  the  crucifixion.  Through 
all  the  service,  music  is  the  chief  ele¬ 
ment,  for  the  Moravian  custom  makes  the 
whole-hearted  hymn-singing  of  the  entire 
congregation  the  very  well-spring  of  wor¬ 
ship  ;  a  faith  whose  central  theme  is  Easter 
expresses  itself  in  a  liturgy  which  consists 
more  of  praise  than  of  prayer.  Even 
through  the  slow  roll  of  the  Good  Friday 
hymns  there  seems  to  run  as  undercurrent 
the  strong  paean  of  the  coming  resurrec¬ 
tion,  so  that  the  image  before  one’s  vision 
is  not  so  much  the  torturing  cruelty  of  the 
cross  as  the  beauty  of  a  willing  sacrifice. 
The  singing  of  selected  stanzas  of  familiar 
hymns  is  as  spontaneous  as  the  informal 
Sunday  night  singing  of  some  family 
group,  and  it  is  as  if  the  Bishop’s  prayer 
were  uttered  by  one  member  of  a  great 


20  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


family  fellowship,  “Into  thy  widespread 
arms,  stretched  out  upon  the  cross,  receive 
us  all.  Amen.” 

We  pour  out  from  the  old  hooded  door¬ 
way  down  the  many-trodden  stone  steps 
into  the  flooding  westward  sunshine. 
Many  people  go  toward  the  graveyard  as 
if  for  a  brief  passing  greeting  to  those 
gentle  sunny  mounds.  A  backward 
glance  at  the  old  church  shows  the 
weather-vane  arrow  and  glittering  ball 
and  the  steadfast  clock-face  beneath,  all 
ashine.  For  more  than  a  hundred  years 
they  have  never  failed  to  give  back  the 
unfailing  sunset.  From  that  white  belfry 
it  always  sounded  the  death  announce¬ 
ment  made  triumphant  in  sonorous  music. 
Either  at  noon  or  at  fall  of  evening  the 
trombones  will  peal  forth  those  old 
familiar  tunes  informing  the  listeners 
whether  it  was  child  or  grown-up,  man 
or  woman,  married  or  single,  that  soul 
for  whom,  from  high  in  air,  the  ancient 
horns  blow  a  bon  voyage  on  its  passage 
skvward. 

The  mood  of  the  afternoon  service 
holds  the  mind  until  the  evening  love- 
feast.  We  use  the  word  love-feast  so 


GOOD  FRIDAY  IY  SALEM  21 


often  flippantly  that  I  did  not  dream 
how  instantly  its  deep  significance  would 
impress  me.  I  begin  to  feel  the  spirit 
before  we  go  to  the  church,  in  the  hospi¬ 
tality  with  which  Miss  Bertha  gathers 
five  of  us  to  accompany  her  so  that  we 
may  not  fancy  ourselves  tonight  to  be 
strangers  in  the  old  Home  Church.  She 
gives  each  of  us  a  little  napkin  in  which 
we  are  to  cover  up  the  love-feast  bun 
when  we  first  receive  it.  The  fragrance 
of  coffee  meets  us  as  we  enter.  The  organ 
rolls  forth,  slow  and  solemn  beneath  a 
master  touch.  Throughout  the  congrega¬ 
tion  there  runs  a  low  rustle  of  cordiality. 
It  is  impossible  to  explain,  it  is  only  pos¬ 
sible  to  experience,  the  profound  effect 
upon  the  emotions  of  the  strange  ming¬ 
ling  of  informality  and  of  deep  religious 
dignity.  The  essential  idea  of  the  love- 
feast  is  to  svmbolize  the  brotherhood  of 
man  with  man,  our  welded  fellowship, 
since  it  was  for  every  one  of  us  alike  that 
God  suffered  in  human  flesh,  died,  and 
was  buried. 

The  measured  sorrow  of  the  organ  sud¬ 
denly  peals  in  triumph.  The  choir  files 
in,  and  then  the  Bishop  and  the  Pastor 


22  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


take  their  places  near  us  behind  a  snowy 
table.  They  are  in  ordinary  dress  and 
seat  themselves  side  by  side  facing  the 
congregation.  The  Pastor  rises  and 
briefly  reviews  the  events  of  Passion 
week  as  one  by  one  the  services  have 
commemorated  them.  At  last  the  anguish 
is  finished,  he  tells  us,  and  tonight,  we 
are  gathered  in  a  quiet  garden  before  a 
sealed  tomb.  He  reads  the  account  of 
the  burial,  and  in  the  bright-lit  church, 
among  whose  worshippers  are  many, 
many  children,  their  happy  wondering 
faces  subdued  by  that  solemn  evening 
narrative  so  simply  read,  we  all  see  the 
reverent  tending  of  a  swathed  body  by 
Joseph  of  Arimathfea  and  Nicodemus. 
We  watch  the  great  rock  sealed  and 
hear  the  clink  of  metal  trappings  as 
the  Roman  sentinels  take  up  their  watch 
beneath  white  stars. 

The  Pastor’s  prayer  is  brief.  He  prays 
that  we  may  remember  that  without  the 
sacrifice  of  Christ  now  consummated 
within  the  sealed  tomb  there  would  never 
have  been  the  beauty  of  Christian  fellow¬ 
ship  as  tonight  we  experience  it.  Then  a 
hymn  rings  out, 


GOOD  FRIDAY  IN  SALEM  23 


“  Lamb  of  God,  thy  precious  blood, 
Healing  wounds  and  bitter  death, 
Be  our  trust,  our  only  boast. 
Blessed  object  of  our  faith. 

Thy  once  marred  countenance 
Comfort  to  our  hearts  dispense; 
By  thy  anguish,  stripes  and  pain. 
May  we  life  and  strength  obtain.” 


At  the  close  of  that  stanza  the  choir 
begins  an  anthem,  and  as  it  sounds,  a  door 
at  the  side  opens  and  through  it,  with  a 
reverent  decorum  that  somehow  catches  at 
the  heart-strings,  there  moves  in  a  file  of 
eight  white-clad  women,  some  of  them 
girls,  some  of  them  silver-headed.  They 
carry  great  baskets  of  love-feast  buns. 
The  head  “diener”  serves  first  the  Bishop 
and  Pastor,  and  then  the  buns  are  dis¬ 
tributed  throughout  the  congregation,  so 
quietly,  so  reverently  that  one  scarcely 
hears  a  rustle  of  movement  throughout 
the  entire  church.  Noiselessly  the  white 
procession  passes  back  through  the  door  it 
had  entered,  and  now  comes  a  line  of  men 
carrying  trays  loaded  with  straight  white 
mugs  of  coffee.  Just  as  the  buns,  so  the 
mugs,  are  given  to  each  person  present. 
The  bun  we  have  folded  in  our  napkin, 


24  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


the  mug  we  hold,  for  the  moment  has  not 
arrived  for  tasting.  The  whole  building 
is  ringing  with  Watts’  deathless  stanza, 

“  When  I  survey  the  wondrous  cross. 

On  which  the  Prince  of  Glory  died. 

My  richest  gain  I  count  but  loss. 

And  pour  contempt  on  all  my  pride.” 

Then  the  congregation  yields  place  to 
the  choir,  and  while  a  soprano  voice  soars 
sweet,  telling  of  that  green  hill  far  away, 
the  love-feast  is  eaten.  There  follows 
more  singing  by  the  people  while  the  eld¬ 
ers  re-enter  and  collect  the  empty  cups,  to 
the  accompaniment  of  the  words : 

“  Let  us  for  each  other  care. 

Each  his  brother’s  burden  bear, 

To  thy  church  a  pattern  give. 

Showing  how  believers  live.” 

The  Bishop  rises  to  make  the  Good 
Friday  address,  but  his  words  are  not  of 
death  and  burial,  they  are  of  life  and  of 
heaven.  To  the  creed  which  the  Bishop 
inherits,  Good  Friday  is  but  a  transient 
gloom  across  the  golden  triumph  of 
Easter.  The  Bishop  is  eighty,  he  stands 
near  enough  to  catch  sometimes  the 


GOOD  FRIDAY  IN  SALEM  25 


strains  they  sing  who  have  reached 
harbour.  How  many  home-goings  he 
must  have  heard  sounded  by  the  trom¬ 
bones  from  the  white  belfry!  That  is  why 
his  words  dwell  so  gladly  upon  our  recog¬ 
nitions  beyond  the  grave.  Not  only  shall 
we  greet  relatives  and  friends  long  gone, 
but  we  shall  look  about  us  and  recognise 
others:  the  sad  and  suffering  whom  at 
some  time  we  have  comforted;  the  strong 
and  good  who  at  some  time  have  com¬ 
forted  us,  and  with  these,  still  others, 
those  true  comrades  who  have  joined 
hands  with  us  in  helping.  We  shall  ex¬ 
perience  a  rapt  new  life  of  fellowship, 
marvellous  now  to  gaze  upon.  Yet  our 
present  duty  is  not  to  contemplate  but  to 
prepare,  and  the  best  way  to  prepare  for 
the  fellowship  to  come  is  by  cementing 
fellowship  each  with  our  neighbour  here, 
yet  never  forgetting  our  nearness  even 
now  on  earth  to  our  loved  ones  beyond. 
We  cannot  guess,  the  Bishop  says,  how 
near  even  at  this  instant  heaven  may  be. 
Its  farthest  reaches  may  lie  unimaginably 
distant  but  its  lowest  step  may  touch  our 
hands,  if  we  but  stretch  them  out.  With 
a  sudden  flash  of  inspiration  he  drives 


26  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


home  the  love-feast  truth.  “At  this  very 
instant,”  so  he  begs  each  one  of  us,  “pray 
for  the  person  sitting  to  your  left,  the  per¬ 
son  sitting  to  your  right,  that  together 
with  you,  all  three  may  receive,  together, 
God’s  peculiar  blessing  needed  for  each 
life.”  Ry  such  prayer  each  for  his  neigh¬ 
bour,  shall  the  current  of  love-feast  bless¬ 
ing  flow  strong  and  unbroken,  uniting 
perhaps  with  the  stream  of  affection 
flooding  toward  us  from  those  passed  on 
who  love  us  still,  for  what  earth-bound 
brain  can  fathom, — so  the  Bishop’s  rapt 
voice  questions — the  full  meaning  of  those 
familiar  words,  the  communion  of  saints, 
which  tonight  we  have  gathered  to  sym¬ 
bolize  in  solemn  Easter  love-feast. 

Strangely  near  they  seemed  to  me,  near 
as  eyes  alight  with  deathless  love,  those 
stars  that  burned  white  and  clear  above 
us,  as  with  the  Bishop’s  words  still  throb¬ 
bing  in  our  ears,  we  poured  forth,  on  that 
Good  Friday  evening,  into  the  quiet 
Square.  Stars  and  sun  were  both  the 
lights  of  Easter  on  that  long-ago  Pass- 
over,  stars  that  kept  watch  above  a  grave 
“wherein  was  never  man  yet  laid,”  sun 
that  saw  the  victory  over  the  grave  that 


GOOD  FRIDAY  IN  SALEM  27 


never  before  had  man  conquered.  Over 
God’s  acre  beyond  my  bedroom  window 
on  that  Good  Friday  night,  the  Easter 
stars  burned  steadfast. 


Ill 


THE  SALEM  OF  THE  PAST 

IT  is  a  sun-flooded  Saturday,  that  of 
the  “Great  Sabbath,”  and  astir  with 
preparations.  All  day  long  the  grave¬ 
yard  is  a  place  of  pilgrimage,  as  I  look 
down  from  my  window  at  its  sunny 
reaches.  The  “graveyard”  is  sharply  dif¬ 
ferent  from  the  modern  “cemetery”;  al¬ 
ways  in  Salem  the  distinction  in  names  is 
kept.  The  “cemetery”  is  just  beyond  the 
slope  and  appears  curiously  alien  with  its 
many-shaped  monuments  and  vaults  and 
sarcophagi  all  irregularly  grouped,  all 
insistently  individual.  Tranquil  by  con¬ 
trast  are  the  long  lines  of  little  rectan¬ 
gular  slabs  lying  side  by  side  on  the 
Moravian  graves.  The  stones  on  the  first 
green  mounds  are  gray  and  old,  the  last 
are  white  and  fresh,  but  today,  on  Great 
Sabbath,  they  will  all  be  scoured  clean  by 
loving  hands,  so  that  the  simple  epitaphs 
will  show  clear  with  their  dates,  from  1771 


28 


SALEM  OF  THE  PAST  29 


to  the  present,  and  with  their  recorded 
birthplaces  of  the  long  ago  dead,  Saxony, 
Denmark,  Sweden,  Holland,  England. 
All  day  there  is  happy  activity  in  those 
carefully  tended  green  spaces.  In  the 
bright  morning  a  sprite  of  four  passes  our 
gate,  and  we  call  out  to  her,  “What  are 
you  going  to  do?” 

She  swings  a  little  tin  pail  gaily  as  she 
answers,  “Going  to  scrub  graves.” 

All  day  long  that  busy,  happy  scour¬ 
ing  is  continued.  There  are  no  flowers 
planted  on  any  of  the  graves,  but  every¬ 
where  cut  flowers  and  flower-pieces  are 
being  heaped  on  the  grassy  mounds.  Few 
of  the  oldest  graves  have  many  blossoms, 
but  at  the  top  of  every  stone  is  laid  a 
bunch  of  ivy  leaves.  No  one  of  all  the 
sleepers  is  forgotten  by  the  living. 

Three  visits  that  I  make  today  empha¬ 
size  the  constant  effort  of  all  Moravians 
to  keep  alive  the  spirit  and  the  spirits  of 
their  past.  There  is  no  barren  extolling 
of  dead  days,  but,  rather,  a  blending  of 
them  with  the  present,  a  conscious,  vital 
union  with  the  traditions  and  the  pur¬ 
poses  of  founders  whose  wise  foresight  has 
been  amply  proved.  In  old  Salem,  tradi- 


30  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


tion  continues  as  recurrent  and  as  freshly 
green  as  the  grass  upon  the  Easter  graves. 
The  dead  live,  that  is  the  fundamental  of 
the  Moravian  creed,  a  truth  held  so  abso¬ 
lutely  that  it  ramifies  from  dogma  into 
every  department  of  daily  life,  and  ac¬ 
counts  for  the  meticulous  care  with  which 
the  records  of  church  and  community  and 
family  have  been  kept.  The  little  archive 
house  of  Salem  is  a  mine  of  delight  for 
the  student  of  history.  The  lady  who  un¬ 
locks  its  door  for  me,  and  unlocks  also  the 
secrets  of  the  busy  human  drama  still 
alive  within  those  old  German  documents, 
traces  her  ancestry  back  to  more  than  one 
name  famous  in  the  annals  of  the  Mora¬ 
vian  church  and  in  the  founding  of  Salem. 
For  her  the  hours  spent  with  those  yellow¬ 
ing  parchments  are  full  of  a  discoverer’s 
ardour.  From  one  shelf  and  another  she 
takes  down  now  a  parish  register,  or 
history,  now  some  legal  deed,  or  some 
private  diary,  and  opening  to  me  that 
neat  German  script,  she  makes  alive  for 
me  long-dead  men  and  women, — their  in¬ 
dustry,  their  pioneer  pluck,  their  conse¬ 
crated  common  sense.  There  in  the  low 
rooms  of  the  archive  house  certain  indi- 


THE  DEAD  DIVE;  THAT  IS  THE  FUNDAMENTAL  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  CREED 


I 


SALEM  OF  THE  PAST  33 


viduals  flash  forth:  young  Count  Zinzen- 
dorf,  whose  burning  zeal  made  his  life 
from  babyhood  to  death  a  romance  of 
religion,  so  practical  a  mystic,  so  adven¬ 
turous  a  saint,  so  high-hearted  a  victim 
when  persecuted;  Christian  David,  that 
daring  carpenter,  who  engineered  so 
many  little  bands  out  from  cruel  Bohemia 
to  Zinzendorf’s  city  of  refuge,  Herrnhut, 
— one  sees  Christian  David,  as  he  fells  the 
first  tree  of  that  settlement  in  Saxonv, 
swinging  his  axe  and  quoting,  “The  spar¬ 
row  hath  found  an  house,  and  the  swallow 
a  nest  for  herself,  where  she  may  lay  her 
young,  even  thine  altars,  O  Lord  of 
hosts.”  A  stout  axe,  an  intrepid  trust,  a 
constant  searching  of  Scripture,  these 
seem  to  have  been  the  unvarying  equip¬ 
ment  of  all  Moravian  pioneers,  both  the 
famous  and  the  humble,  both  in  Zinzen¬ 
dorf’s  Saxonv,  and  here  in  their  Wach- 
ovian  grant  in  North  Carolina.  Looking 
down  from  a  wall  in  the  archive  house 
is  the  keen  and  genial  face  of  Bishop 
Spangenberg,  whom  his  friend  Zinzen- 
dorf  nick-named  “Joseph”  because  he  was 
so  kind  to  his  brethren.  It  was  in  1752 
that  Bishop  Spangenberg  was  deputed  by 


34  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


Zinzendorf  to  select  the  100,000  acres 
that  should  comprise  the  Moravian  tract 
purchased  from  Lord  Granville  in  North 
Carolina.  It  cost  Bishop  Spangenberg 
and  his  companions  a  dozen  weeks  of 
hardship  and  exploration  in  an  unknown 
wilderness  before  they  discovered  a  region 
suited  to  their  purpose;  because  it  re¬ 
minded  them  of  the  fertile  meadows  of 
their  Saxon  home,  they  named  it  Wachau, 
Wachovia. 

Some  months  after  the  region  had  been 
thus  selected  and  surveyed,  its  first  colo¬ 
nists  set  forth.  Careful  records  made  by 
that  first  band  of  Moravian  settlers  tell 
us  how  they  started  out  from  Bethlehem, 
Pennsylvania,  on  October  8,  1753,  twelve 
“Single  Brethren”  carefully  selected  to 
be  conquerors  of  the  wilderness  as  well 
as  founders  of  a  religious  colony, — pastor, 
farmers,  carpenters,  a  baker,  a  doctor 
whose  ministry  was  to  spread  over  a 
radius  of  a  hundred  miles.  On  Saturday 
evening,  November  17th,  the  little  pro¬ 
cession, — men,  horses,  and  one  covered 
wagon — reached  the  empty  cabin  which 
was  to  be  their  wilderness  shelter.  There 
on  that  first  Saturday  night  while,  as  their 


SALEM  OF  THE  PAST  35 


own  chroniclers  tell  us,  the  wolves  and 
panthers  howled  outside  the  door,  they 
held  their  first  love-feast.  From  those 
first  years  down  to  today  the  chief  histo¬ 
rians  have  been  the  pastors.  At  present 
the  custom  is  still  most  carefully  kept  of 
reading  the  “Memorabilia”  of  the  events 
of  the  past  year  at  the  watch-night  serv¬ 
ices  held  on  New  Year’s  Eve.  Just  as  in 
1753  Pastor  Grube  kept  the  records  of  his 
parish  and  read  them  aloud  to  his  people 
at  New  Year’s,  so  today  Bishop  Rond- 
thaler  reads  his  “Memorabilia”  to  his  con¬ 
gregation  in  the  last  hours  of  every  year. 
While  the  “Memorabilia”  are  chiefly  con- 
cerned  with  events  happening  in  Salem, 
they  have  also,  both  in  the  eighteenth 
century  and  now,  always  contained  refer¬ 
ences  to  events  occurring  in  the  state  and 
the  nation  and  in  the  world  at  large.  This 
custom  has  brought  it  about  that  some¬ 
times  the  records  of  some  obscure  Mora¬ 
vian  parish  have  settled  the  date  of  some 
historic  incident  of  national  significance. 

I  could  have  lingered  long  among  those 
carefully  labelled  chronicles  enshrining  so 
many  long-gone  human  personalities,  and 
cherished  with  the  same  perception  of  the 


36  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


value  of  sequence  as  is  shown  by  the  tend¬ 
ing  of  the  old  hallowed  graves.  Salem  is 
a  city  that  never  forgets  what  it  owes  to 
its  founders,  and  so  in  humble  human 
imitation  of  a  divine  Easter  gesture,  rolls 

away  the  stone  of  oblivion  that  would  re- 
•/ 

strain  their  resurgent  influence.  It  is  a 
little  later  in  this  day  and  at  the  scene  of 
their  first  efforts  that  those  sturdy  old 
builders  of  the  old  Wachovian  colony 
come  forth  from  the  past  to  my  vision,  all 
quick  with  life  and  energy. 

It  is  a  ten  miles  drive  from  Salem,  not 
founded  until  1766,  to  Bethabara,  or  “Old 
Town,”  the  first  village  of  Wachovia. 
Here  the  early  colonists  built  the  sturdy 
little  church,  which  stands  today,  un¬ 
changed  inside  or  out,  as  it  was  when  con¬ 
secrated  in  1769.  Church  and  parsonage 
form  one  building;  the  parsonage  is  now 
a  parish  house  containing  the  love-feast 
kitchen;  in  the  deep  fireplace  the  coffee  is 
still  boiled  for  the  love-feasts  of  the  pres¬ 
ent,  and  in  the  big  cupboards  the  straight 
white  mugs  are  stacked.  Grouped  about 
the  church  are  old  houses,  their  stucco 
wails  a  mellow  buff  against  which  are 
massed  great  green  domes  of  boxwood. 


in  the;  deep  fireplace;  the  coffee  is  stile  boiled  for  the  love  feasts  of 

THE  PRESENT 


SALEM  OF  THE  PAST  39 


At  the  back  of  the  church  begins  the  line 
of  stone  posts  lately  erected  to  mark  the 
stockade  which  protected  the  settlement 
during  the  Indian  wars.  The  Moravian 
villages  were  originally  on  friendly  terms 
with  their  Indian  neighbours,  but  as  the 
spirit  of  treachery  and  murder  spread 
South  from  the  Northern  tribes  to  infect 
the  Cherokees,  the  pioneers  were  forced 
to  build  their  stockade  and  to  load  their 
guns.  Many  scattered  settlers  fled  to 
their  protection,  and  the  administration 
of  a  crowded  refugee  community  was  a 
difficult  task.  There  was  much  sickness 
and  many  a  stealthy  burial  party  had  to 
climb  to  the  hill-top  graveyard  in  the 
night,  lest  the  Indians  discover  how  few 
and  weak  were  the  defenders  of  the  fort. 

That  hill-top  burial-ground  of  Old 
Town,  no  one  who  has  ever  visited  it  could 
ever  forget.  It  is  the  highest  point  of  all 
the  country  round,  so  lofty  that  its  trees 
served  as  watch-towers  against  Indian 
attack.  The  great  chestnuts  and  oaks  of 
1750  still  stand  sentinel  over  the  little  flat 
gray  stones,  hidden  deep  in  grass  and  blue 
periwinkle.  It  was  in  some  immemorial 
April  that  those  trees  first  thrust  forth 


40  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


the  pale  shoots  that  once  again  today  veil 
the  gaunt,  sinewy  boughs.  Towering  and 
undecayed,  the  great  trees  still  sway  and 
whisper  on  their  high  and  wind-rocked 
hill.  At  the  foot  of  one  great  trunk  is  a 
tiny  grave,  tender  in  the  memory,  like  the 
blue  of  periwinkle.  It  is  the  oldest  grave 
in  Wachovia,  and  yet  the  grave  of  so 
young  a  little  spirit!  The  date  on  the 
stone  is  1757,  and  the  name  of  the  two- 
year-old  is  Anna  Maria  Opiz.  I  wonder 
if  in  the  other  world  there  is  periwinkle, 
blossoming  eternally  fresh  and  blue.  It 
wras  from  a  heart  strong  in  deathless 
Easter  hope  that  the  old  diarist  wrote  of 
the  baby  girl,  “She  was  gathered  in  as  the 
first  floweret  in  Wachovia  bv  our  Heav- 
enly  Gardener  and  her  little  tenement  was 
sown  as  the  first  grain  of  wheat  in  this 
God’s  acre,  which  upon  this  occasion  was 
consecrated.” 

Moravian  creed  and  custom  have  al¬ 
ways  had  a  peculiar  reverence  for  child¬ 
hood.  The  boys  and  girls  of  today  seem 
to  grow  up  into  the  faith  of  their  fathers 
as  happily  and  loyally  as  spring  blossoms 
develop  into  fruitage.  In  methods  of 
education  there  must  always  have  been  an 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  GROUNDS  OF  SALEM  ACADEMY 
ARE  HIDDEN  BEHIND  THE  BUILDINGS  THAT 
FLANK  THE  SQUARE 


SALEM  OF  THE  PAST  43 


exercise  of  that  gracious  tact  in  tending 
little  budding  souls  which  is  first  recorded 
as  a  rule  for  Christian  practice  in  the 
tenth  chapter  of  Mark.  Bethlehem  and 
Salem  have  each  had  for  more  than  a 
hundred  years  a  famous  school  for  girls. 

In  many  a  Southern  family  of  today, 
grandmother,  mother,  and  daughter  have 
all  attended  Salem  Academy,  and  still 
in  an  unbroken  tradition  Salem  Acad¬ 
emy  and  Salem  College  will  receive  the 
daughters  of  tomorrow.  As  their  grand¬ 
mothers  have  done  they  wrill  sit  on  late 
spring  afternoons  on  the  steps  beneath 
the  white  pillars,  or  in  the  grounds  hidden 
behind  those  high  brick  buildings  that 
flank  the  Square,  they  will  wander  be¬ 
neath  the  dreaming  willows  and  linger  by 
the  little  tinkling  fountains. 

At  the  southern  end  of  the  brick  fa9ade, 
but  forming  one  continuous  line  with  the 
newer  buildings,  is  the  old  Sisters’  House ; 
here  lives  one  whose  life  has  formed  an  ^ 
unbroken  line  of  continuity  between  the 
old  time  and  the  new.  For  fifty  years 
Miss  L.  was  a  teacher,  watching  the 
Academy  grow  from  the  standards  of  a 
grade  school  to  those  of  a  college,  and  far 


44  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


more  than  that,  herself  leading,  directing, 
establishing  those  growing  standards.  As 
a  graduate  of  those  earlier  elementary 
courses,  she  blazed  her  own  trail  into 
fuller  knowledge,  always  keeping  ahead 
of  her  classes  and  leading  them  after  her. 
Frail,  alert,  alive,  an  eager  flame  lightly 
cased  in  the  fragile  seventies,  I  shall  not 
soon  forget  the  delicate,  slim  figure,  or  the 
mobile  face  beneath  the  short  white  curls. 

The  Sisters’  House  was  for  me  a 
place  of  subtle,  speculative  memories, — 
this  home  of  the  “single  sisters,”  a  group 
of  women  who  gave  their  lives  to  service, 
and  were,  during  a  period  when  in  most 
places  “old  maid”  was  a  term  of  op¬ 
probrium,  here  regarded  with  veneration 
as  an  integral  part  of  the  community.  It 
seems  to  me  that  from  every  aspect  from 
which  I,  a  stranger,  could  observe  it,  the 
Moravian  practice  has  succeeded  in  nour¬ 
ishing  tradition  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
it  still  bear  the  old  sound  mellow  fruit 
under  new  and  modern  conditions.  The 
old  Sisters’  House  with  its  bare  white¬ 
washed  walls,  its  broad-planked  floors,  its 
quaint  cul-de-sac  corridors,  has  adapted 
itself  so  far  as  possible  to  the  independ- 


SALEM  OF  THE  PAST  45 


ence  of  a  modern  apartment  building.  In 
rooms  big  enough  to  be  arranged  for  all 
the  requirements  of  a  tiny  modern  flat  the 
retired  teachers  now  spend  their  old  age. 
To  the  last  they  are  a  live  influence. 
Former  pupils  are  constantly  dropping  in 
at  the  Sisters’  House,  and  the  students 
of  today  know  their  way  through  those 
netted  old  corridors.  In  the  big  dining¬ 
room  hundreds  of  girls  bow  their  heads 
when  Miss  L.,  a  slender  figure  leaning  on 
a  slender  cane,  stands  to  ask  the  blessing. 
Both  in  their  homes  and  in  their  schools 
the  Moravians  have  found  the  secret  of  an 
education  that  unites  the  aged  and  the 
youthful  as  naturally  as  bough  and  blos¬ 
som  are  united.  In  most  educational 
systems  there  is  no  servitor  more  quickly 
condemned  to  the  scrap-heap  than  the  old 
teacher,  but  the  Moravians  have  too  deep 
an  insight  into  values  to  practice  so  blind 
and  heartless  an  economy.  I  wonder  if 
the  girls  today  going  forth  from  Salem 
College  will  carry  through  life  any  deeper 
educative  influence  than  that  of  Miss  L.’s 
presence  in  an  old  room  of  many  wel¬ 
comes,  a  room  still  cordially  open  to  any¬ 
one’s  knock. 


IV 


A  SALEM  EASTER 


THESE  three  visits  on  this  “  Great 
Sabbath,”  to  the  archive  house 
where  the  dead  founders  are  still 
valiantly  alive,  to  the  Sisters’  House 
where  past  and  present  are  one,  to  the 
Bethabara  graveyard  where  the  trees  of 
two  centuries  are  once  more  green  with 
youth,  these  three  visits  have  put  my 
spirit  in  tune  for  the  Easter  vigil.  That 
vigil  is  ushered  in  by  the  gathering  twi¬ 
light,  in  which  we  sit  with  Miss  Dorcas 
on  her  porch,  watching  the  few  late  visi¬ 
tors  still  busy  in  the  graveyard.  Laden 
down  with  wreaths  and  bouquets,  which 
she  has  spent  all  afternoon  in  arranging, 
Miss  Bertha  has  gone  to  “my  graves,”  as 
Miss  Dorcas  calls  them.  One  friend  after 
another  drops  in  to  chat  awhile  with  us 
seated  there  on  the  dusky  porch,  while  the 
gold  of  the  sunset  fades  gently  to  gray, 
and  the  stars  steal  forth.  There  are  chil- 


46 


A  SALEM  EASTER 


47 


dren  bobbing  about,  laughing,  rolling  on 
the  green  stretches  in  the  happy  evening, 
all  talking  of  the  mysterious  antics  of  the 
Easter  rabbit  expected  to  make  his  rounds 
tomorrow  morning.  Miss  Dorcas  speaks 
in  tranquil  comment,  “You  think  so  much 
about  the  dead  today,  don’t  you?  I  am 
getting  so  old  I  shall  be  going  any 
time  now.”  Her  words  chime  with  the 
Bishop’s  who  when  someone  asked  him 
who  was  to  conduct  the  Easter  services, 
answered  smiling,  “I  say  that  I  shall,  but 
when  a  man  is  eighty,  he  cannot  know.” 
True  Moravians  who  have  seen  so  many 
glad  Easters  cannot  face  death  with  any 
shudder,  for  they  know  their  going  will 
be  told  in  music  on  the  evening  wind,  that 
their  graves  on  every  Easter  will  be 
jocund  with  flowers,  that  their  memories 
will  be  kept  radiant  in  the  fellowship  of 
the  living  with  the  dead. 

A  young  nephew  of  my  friend’s,  blow¬ 
ing  in  upon  her  for  a  breezy  greeting, 
says,  “So  near  the  graveyard?  Aren’t 
you  afraid  of  ghosts?”  then  adds,  “But  I 
never  heard  of  a  Moravian  ghost.”  If 
they  could  come  back,  Moravian  ghosts, 
they  would  be  sweet,  dim  visitants  whom 


48  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


no  one  could  fear, — that  is  my  thought  as 
I  look  out  on  their  quiet  sleeping  place 
just  before  I  get  into  bed. 

Full  of  preparations,  Miss  Bertha  has 
bustled  us  off  to  sleep  early,  but  before 
we  go  upstairs  she  has  made  Miss  Dorcas 
comfortable  for  the  night,  and  has  also 
arranged  the  couch  for  the  little  neigh¬ 
bour,  Margaret  Anne,  who  is  to  stay  here 
tonight  in  order  to  go  with  us  to  the  early 
service.  Both  fall  asleep  all  eager  ex¬ 
pectancy,  eight  years  old  and  eighty,  side 
by  side. 

Miss  Bertha  is  briskly  winding  her 
alarm  clock  when  we  say  goodnight.  She 
assures  us  that  she  will  call  us  in  good  time 
for  coffee  and  sugar  cake  with  her  at  five. 

Our  sleep  is  fitful.  Old  Salem  does  not 
expect  to  sleep  much  on  Easter  Even. 
All  night,  steps  crunch  the  gravel  out¬ 
side  our  windows.  All  night  motor  cars 
pour  into  the  old  streets  from  all  the 
country  round.  Dreamily  the  noises  drift 
in  to  me  and  now  and  then  I  start  up  for 
a  brief  wakeful  moment  at  the  chiming  of 
the  church  clock.  It  is  half  past  one  when 
my  friend’s  eager  whisper  rouses  me, 
makes  me  hurry  to  kneel  beside  her  at  the 


A  SALEM  EASTER 


49 


dark  window,  for  we  must  not  miss  the 
gathering  of  the  trombone  bands  who 
shall  go  forth  through  all  the  sleeping 
streets  announcing  Easter.  In  the  deep 
sky  the  Easter  stars  are  shining,  white 
above  the  dim  squares  in  the  long  lines  in 
the  graveyard.  One  great  window  glows 
forth  in  the  surrounding  dark,  the  window 
of  the  room  in  the  old  Beloe  House  where 
they  have  been  giving  the  band  members 
coffee  before  their  march.  Just  below 
us  near  the  church,  a  mellow  voice  is 
speaking  directions.  There  is  moving  to 
and  fro  of  shadowy  forms  assembling. 
Through  the  gloom  bob  the  ruddy  orbs  of 
torches,  the  night  is  too  still  for  any  flar¬ 
ing  streamers  of  light.  The  shapes  of 
men  and  boys  are  indistinct,  but  the  torch 
glow  shines  clear  on  the  metal  of  the  long 
horns.  Every  Moravian  boy  knows  how 
to  play  the  trombone.  There  are  fathers 
and  sons  and  uncles  in  the  groups  muster¬ 
ing  now.  Boys  too  small  to  sound  a  horn 
may  carry  a  torch.  They  are  all  gather¬ 
ing  quietly,  reverently.  The  voice  of  the 
director  sounds  low  and  clear  through  the 
Square,  as  one  by  one  he  dismisses  a  band 
of  a  score  on  its  appointed  march.  Each 


50  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


band  will  have  its  particular  tunes,  its 
particular  places  for  playing  them.  At 
exactly  the  same  corner  beneath  our  win¬ 
dow  Miss  Dorcas  has  for  forty  years 
heard  the  same  tune  played.  The  cher¬ 
ished  stanza  to  which  her  memory  fits 
those  measures  she  has  had  Miss  Bertha 
write  down  for  us.  As  two  o’clock  chimes 
from  the  dim  belfry  in  the  dark  sky  the 
trombones  ring  out  on  the  stillness. 
Somewhere  down  in  the  silent  house  below 
us,  Miss  Dorcas  is  listening,  whispering 
the  words  for  which  the  music  is  the 
accompaniment : 

“  Thy  majesty,  how  vast  it  is. 

And  liow  immense  the  glory. 

Which  thou,  O  Jesus,  dost  possess, 

Both  heaven  and  earth  adore  thee; 

The  legions  of  angels  exult  thy  great  name. 
Thy  glory  and  might  are  transcendent. 

And  thousands  and  thousands  thy  praises 
proclaim, 

Upon  thee  gladly  dependent.” 

For  some  minutes  we  hear  the  meas¬ 
ured  beat  of  their  steps  as  band  after  band 
goes  out  from  the  old  Square.  For  two 
hours,  sounding  now  here,  now  there, 
distant  yet  poignant  and  clear,  the  an- 


A  SALEM  EASTER 


51 


cient  horns  will  peal  forth  their  message. 
From  our  window  we  watch  one  company 
march  down  Cedar  Avenue.  Beyond  that 
quiet  avenue,  we  can  hear  the  clang  and 
rush  of  trolleys,  the  barking  of  automo¬ 
biles.  We  watch  the  gleaming  torches 
and  dim-lit  brass  as  the  company  tramps 
past  the  ivied  gate  posts  and  the  arches 
with  their  texts  of  hope,  while,  white  in 
the  dusk  and  the  stars,  the  long  ranks  of 
the  flowered  gravestones  keep  their  meas¬ 
ured  march  step  by  step  accompanying 
the  living.  The  torches  bob  to  the  rise 
and  fall  of  those  rhythmic  feet,  successors 
of  feet  that  once,  mad  with  unearthly  joy, 
sped  through  dark  streets,  to  tell  men 
grief -bowed  in  black  Jerusalem,  of  a 
golden  morning. 

The  sweet  Easter  music  rings  at  inter¬ 
vals  through  the  few  hours  of  sleep  left. 
It  does  not  seem  long  before  we  hear  Miss 
Bertha  stirring  about,  and  presently  wre 
are  on  our  way  downstairs.  The  windows 
are  still  coal-black  squares  and  we  eat  by 
electric  light.  The  table  is  gay  with  red 
tulips.  Margaret  Anne  bows  her  little 
square-cropped  head  to  ask  the  old 
Moravian  blessing, 


52  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


“  Come,  Lord  Jesus.,  our  guest  to  be 
And  bless  the  gifts  bestowed  by  thee.” 


The  coffee  and  sugar  cake  are  delicious, 
and,  by  Miss  Dorcas’  special  request, 
there  is  also  a  plate  of  delicate  white  cook¬ 
ies,  “white  Christmas  cakes.”  There  are 
also  in  the  holidav  season,  as  Miss  Bertha 
tells  us,  “black  Christmas  cakes.”  The 
conversation  passes  easily  to  Salem 
Christmas  customs.  I  should  like  to  be 
present  at  the  children’s  Christmas  Eve 
festival  when  the  old  church  is  all  in  dark¬ 
ness  except  for  the  lighted  tapers,  given 
to  each  child.  A  Saviour  born  to  brighten 
this  dark  earth,  a  Saviour  coming  forth 
bright  from  a  dark  tomb, — as  I  look  into 
Margaret  Anne’s  glowing  Easter  face,  I 
perceive  that  here  in  Moravian  Salem  the 
story  of  a  birth  and  the  story  of  a  resur¬ 
rection  are  blent  into  a  creed  simple 
enough  for  any  child  to  understand. 

It  is  still  dark  at  half-past  five  when  we 
go  out  into  the  street.  As  Miss  Anna’s 
guests  we  have  the  good  fortune  to  be  ad¬ 
mitted  within  the  ropes  which  bar  all  en¬ 
trance  to  the  Square  and  also  cut  off  the 
streets  leading  up  to  the  graveyard.  Be- 


A  SALEM  EASTER 


53 


yond  the  Square,  from  earliest  morning 
there  has  been  gathering  a  phalanxed 
crowd  stretching  for  blocks.  We  wrait 
close  to  the  church  among  the  members 
of  the  home  congregation.  Just  across 
from  us  is  the  side  wall  and  sloping  roof- 
gable  of  an  old  brick  house.  Against  this 
house  wall  in  the  dusk  and  shadow  the 
trombone  bands,  returned  two  hours  ago, 
are  massed.  Their  torches  glow  orbed 
and  ruddy,  gleaming  now  on  the  polished 
shaft  of  a  long  horn,  now  on  some  face 
suddenly  flashing  forth  against  the  dark. 
Above  the  house  roof  there  is  lacework 
of  woven  branches  softened  by  their  first 
leaf-shoots.  Beyond  the  branches  floats 
the  silver  wafer  of  the  Pascal  moon,  shin¬ 
ing  through  ravelled  cloud. 

We  wait  there  with  eyes  glued  to  the 
hooded  front  of  the  old  church  door. 
“Watch!”  whispers  Miss  Bertha,  for  we 
must  not  miss  the  opening  of  that  door. 
At  last  an  electric  light  flashes  up  within 
the  arched  entrance.  No  word  is  spoken 
anywdiere.  The  doors  swing  in.  First 
come  the  ushers,  then  the  choir,  next  the 
pastors  of  all  the  Moravian  churches  of 
the  city,  and  then  the  mayor.  Still  we  a 


54  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


wait,  watching  the  door.  It  is  as  if  all  the 
congregation  in  the  Square  and  all  those 
close-packed  thousands  in  the  surround¬ 
ing  streets, — it  is  as  if  each  of  us  drew  a 
long  breath,  waiting.  Suddenly,  silently, 
he  is  there,  an  old  man  standing  in  the 
stream  of  light  from  the  church  entrance. 
For  blocks  and  blocks  of  dark  streets 
people  will  hear  his  voice,  a  beautiful 
voice  now  pushed  to  its  uttermost, — 
“The  Lord  is  risen!  He  is  risen  indeed!” 

Unnoticed,  the  whiteness  of  morning 
has  become  visible  against  the  outlines  of 
old  roofs.  The  tension  of  expectancy 
slackens  into  the  beauty  of  realization. 
As  with  one  single  spontaneous  voice  the 
old  Square  sings: 


“  Hail,  all  hail,  victorious  Lord  and  Saviour, 
Thou  hast  burst  the  bonds  of  death; 
Grant,  as  to  Mary,  the  great  favour 
To  embrace  thy  feet  in  faith: 

Thou  hast  in  our  stead  the  curse  endured. 
And  for  us  eternal  life  procured; 

Jovful  we  with  one  accord. 

Hail  thee  as  our  risen  Lord.” 


The  Easter  liturgy  is  the  affirmation 
of  triumphant  belief.  One  by  one  the 


A  SALEM  EASTER 


55 


Bishop  reads  first  the  statement  of  faith 
in  the  Father,  and  at  the  close  the  congre¬ 
gation  proclaims  assent, 

“This  I  verily  believe.” 

Then  in  low  reverent  murmur  the 
Lord’s  prayer  rises.  Next  the  Bishop 
reads,  sentence  after  sentence,  the  articles 
that  embody  the  faith  in  God’s  Son,  to 
which  the  congregation  responds, 

“This  I  most  certainly  believe.” 

The  Bishop’s  voice  rings  last  in  the 
words  of  belief  in  the  Holy  Ghost,  and 
a  third  time  the  congregation  affirms  its 
creed, 

“This  I  assuredly  believe.” 

The  stanza  of  a  hymn  closes  the  service 

•/ 

in  the  Square,  which  is  now  broken  by 
the  march  to  the  graveyard,  where  the 
“Easter  Morning  Litany”  will  be  com¬ 
pleted.  The  Bishop  now  addresses  “those 
of  many  faiths,  from  many  places,  gath¬ 
ered  here.”  He  begs  those  far  crowds, 
in  the  name  of  the  risen  Lord,  to  move 
quietly,  each  person  mindful  of  each 
other’s  need,  each  preserving  the  Easter 
spirit,  as  all  march,  forming  into  fours, 
congregation  and  visitors  all  proceeding 
in  long  unbroken  column  to  the  grave- 


56  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


yard.  The  Bishop  leads  the  procession. 
He  wears  a  black  cap,  a  long  black  over¬ 
coat,  which,  buttoned  to  the  throat,  faintly 
suggests  the  outline  of  a  black  gown,  but 
there  is  absolutely  no  insignia,  no  hint  of 
ceremonial.  The  Bishop  is  but  one  of 
a  great  concourse  whom  he  leads  to  cele¬ 
brate  the  Resurrection. 

The  first  trombone  band  follows  just 
behind  the  Bishop.  The  others  come  at 
intervals.  They  play  antiphonally,  pass¬ 
ing  their  music  back  along  the  line  as 
runners  might  pass  a  torch.  Day  is 
brightening  everywhere.  The  moon  has 
become  a  dead  gray  wisp.  The  dim  scene 
grows  palpitant  with  colour,  the  bright 
emerald  of  poplars,  the  soft  red  of  old 
brick,  the  dense  green  of  boxwood,  the 
black-green  of  ivy,  and  against  an  old 
buff  wall  the  drooping  lavendar  grace  of 
wistaria.  The  procession  passes  along 
the  wide  gravel  path  of  Cedar  Avenue 
between  the  lines  of  poplars.  The  gray 
stone  wall  that,  on  our  left,  separates 
Cedar  Avenue  from  the  town,  is  alive 
with  watching  faces.  A  father  balances 
a  wondering  baby  on  that  low  parapet. 
The  head  of  a  bright-turbanned  black 


A  SALEM  EASTER 


57 


mammy  shows  at  another  point.  Every 
twelve  feet  along  the  march  there  is  sta¬ 
tioned  an  usher,  wearing  a  tiny  bit  of  red 
and  white  ribbon  in  his  lapel.  There 
are  a  hundred  and  fifty  of  these  ushers. 
They  stand  with  bared  heads  and  rev¬ 
erent  faces.  The  great  crowd  obeys  the 
slightest  motion  of  an  usher’s  hand.  The 
simple,  grave  decorum  is  dominant  every¬ 
where.  The  Bishop  enters  at  the  middle 
gate,  passing  beneath  the  white  arch  in¬ 
scribed,  “I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the 
Life.”  He  takes  his  stand  at  the  center 
of  the  graveyard.  The  crowd  is  massed 
solidly  in  the  broad  intersecting  paths. 
There  are  no  ropes  to  protect  the  graves, 
but  yet  not  a  foot  transgresses  on  their 
privacy.  At  every  entrance  now  the 
crowd  flows  in,  in  steady  fours  endlessly. 
As  he  passes  beneath  the  lettered  arches, 
every  man  bares  his  head.  Within  the 
graveyard  all  face  toward  the  Bishop.  In 
the  long  reverent  waiting  for  all  to  as¬ 
semble,  there  is  a  low  hum  of  talk  but  no 
noise  anywhere.  The  birds,  jocund  at 
seven  of  a  radiant  March  morning,  can  be 
clearly  heard  in  the  budding  branches  over 
our  heads.  The  service  is  always  timed  to 


58  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


take  place  exactly  at  sunrise,  but  today  it 
has  been  impossible  to  calculate  the  length 
of  time  it  will  take  the  procession  to  enter. 
The  sun  shows  first  a  burning  rim,  then 
climbs  to  balance  a  scarlet  disk  on  the  far 
horizon  beyond  the  trees,  and  is  mounting 
high  above  the  hill  line,  while  still  the 
crowd  streams  into  the  graveyard,  twenty 
thousand  when  they  have  finished. 

As  we  wait,  the  air  is  sweet  with  the 
flowers  upon  the  graves.  I  wonder  if  we 
stand  there  alone,  we  who  call  ourselves 
“the  living.”  Perhaps  there  bend  to  us 
above  the  white  stones  gracious  presences 
from  long  ago.  Who  shall  fathom  at  any 
time  the  subtle  interweaving  of  life  with 
death?  Here  in  the  sunny  graveyard 
little  gray  crumbled  slabs  bear  the  blithe 
names  mothers  once  sang  in  the  lulla¬ 
bies  of  long-dead  babies.  Today  blithe, 
bubbly,  living  children  crowd  close  upon 
the  lichened  stones.  Margaret  Anne’s 
hand  is  warm  in  mine.  This  is  her  first 
sunrise  service.  When  she  goes  home  she 
will  hunt  for  the  gifts  the  Easter  rabbit 
will  have  left  for  her. 

Still  we  watch  the  in-pouring  of  that 
great  crowd,  until  in  the  distance  we  hear 


A  SALEM  EASTER 


59 


the  notes  of  the  trombone  band  at  the  end 
of  the  procession,  and  at  last  all  are  gath¬ 
ered  within  the  ivied  portals,  and  there 
among  the  flower-heaped  graves  the  beau¬ 
tiful  Easter  litany  is  completed.  The  old 
hymns  float  up  above  the  branches.  Far 
over  the  hushed  concourse  the  Bishop’s 
voice  rings  in  the  age-old  words  of  death¬ 
less  triumph: 

“I  have  a  desire  to  depart,  and  to  be 

with  Christ,  which  is  far  better:  I  shall 

never  taste  death ;  yea,  I  shall  attain  unto 

the  resurrection  of  the  dead:  for  the  body 

•/ 

which  I  shall  put  off,  this  grain  of  cor¬ 
ruptibility,  shall  put  on  incorruption;  my 
flesh  shall  rest  in  hope. 

“And  the  God  of  peace  that  brought 
again  from  the  dead  our  Lord  Jesus,  the 
great  Shepherd  of  the  sheep,  through  the 
blood  of  the  everlasting  covenant,  shall 
also  quicken  these  our  mortal  bodies  if 
so  be  that  the  Spirit  of  God  hath  dwelt 
in  them.” 

In  deep  murmured  unison  sounds  the 
response,  “We  poor  sinners  pray,  hear  us, 
gracious  Lord  and  God.” 

Then  come  words  that  express  the 
inmost  spirit  of  this  graveyard  service, 


60  THE  EASTER  PEOPLE 


words  that  embody  the  aspiration  that 
has  made  Easter  the  key  of  the  Moravian 
creed : 

“And  keep  us  in  everlasting  fellowship 
with  those  of  our  brethren  and  sisters 
who,  since  last  E aster-day,  have  entered 
into  the  joy  of  their  Lord,  and  with 
the  whole  church  triumphant,  and  let  us 
rest  together  in  thy  presence  from  our 
labours.” 

When  the  service  is  completed,  the 
great  crowd  in  silence  pours  forth  again 
through  the  white-arched  entrances,  thrid- 
ding  the  streets  of  the  city  in  all  direc¬ 
tions,  moving  homeward.  One  cannot 
talk,  going  home  from  that  Easter  wor¬ 
ship  by  the  graves. 

Even  when,  in  the  afternoon,  we  leave 
old  Salem,  we  cannot  talk  much,  for  the 
peace  of  a  beautiful  memory  holds  our 
spirits  too  deeply  for  any  words.  The 
crowding,  whizzing  cars,  returning,  make 
the  highway  a  blur  of  noise  and  dust,  a 
highway  leading  away  from  Easter  into 
the  busy  hum  of  every  day.  Days  and 
weeks  and  months  shall  turn  their  swift 
wheels  bearing  me  far  from  Salem.  Yet 
always  that  word  will  have  power  to 


A  SALEM  EASTER 


61 


release  memories  as  fragrant  as  flowers 
placed  tenderly  within  the  hands  of  happy 
sleepers,  a  memory  of  a  baby  girl  cradled 
beneath  a  great  tree  on  a  windy  hill  top,  a 
memory  of  an  old  man’s  voice,  invincible 
in  faith,  that  rings  through  dim  streets 
upon  an  Easter  dawn: 

“The  Lord  is  risen!  He  is  risen 
indeed!” 


Printed  in  United  States  of  America. 


M 


Date  Due 


2501YR 

LBC 

03-17-05  32180 


t  :  i —  l  B  I  *— V 

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JJ  A 
MS  £ 


BX8567 .N8K59 
The  Easter  people; 


Princeton  Theological  Seminary-Speer  Library 


1  1012  00021  1633 


